The snow held for three days.
Not the kind of storm Rowan had wanted, not the deep white curtain that erased roads and turned every route into a gamble, but enough to slow wheels, soften sound, and make Grimridge feel as though winter had finally stopped circling at a distance and put its hand against the wall. The roofs stayed pale through the mornings. The birch line thickened with white. Breath hung longer in the air, and every door that opened let cold into the pack house in a clean, mean rush.
Cassian used every hour of it.
